


I Don't Like The Sound Of My Own Voice

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [6]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Directly connected with Hard To Hear, Kind of one sided maybe?, Lots of Touching/Cuddling, M/M, Made it sad by accident, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Mentions of self harm and/or attempted suicide, Miscommunication, Musical Notes as a Literal Language, Semi explaining the AU to myself for future reference, Wilson doesn't ever wash his hair and I'm sticking to that headcanon forever, tried to do fluff, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:23:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: A time skip for after the machines completion and after the rather sudden arrival of an entire musical number, in which the former King is exiled from the group (he's fine with that) and has to deal with himself and his own feelings and thoughts by himself (he's not fine with that).





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how relationships work or what to think of them so obviously Maxwell has no clue either.
> 
> Also probably some touch starvation in there, maybe some slight autistic traits, probably a dysfunctional relationship because there's only assumptions and no communication whatsoever and it's just not that...good.

Doing this was always quite odd.

Not in a negative sense, but Maxwell had never been one to be so physical. Even things like handshakes or taps on the shoulders made him uneasy, nervous even, back when he had been on the stage. Truly, even under all that public attention, the only one he daily interacted with then was Charlie, and she was his employee and very respectable. He never invaded her space, and she never invaded his, was mindful when he got uncomfortable. Obviously Maxwell worried constantly of offending her, of hurting her in some way by his more…eccentric behavior, perhaps, but Charlie never gave any signs or ever brought up any problems to him. She was a very good person and he had greatly appreciated what she had done for him.

What he had done for her, however, was greatly lacking. She did not deserve what happened to her, not like how Maxwell deserved his fate and worse.

Quelling the self depreciating thoughts took focus, time, and even with where he was now it was hard. He had been hyperfocused in the beginning, but as time dragged on, in warmth and company and that vague feeling of safety, his relaxing state allowed his mind to wander.

Maxwell understood this, knew exactly what his thoughts had turned to the instant Charlie's name floated over in his head, but stopping his own inner rambling was not easy, especially when he was unfocused and very comfortable. If he just let it happen, however, his own mood would be ruined and he'd not enjoy this activity of theirs as greatly as he did.

With that his thoughts turned outward, distracted by a slight shuffle as the person in his arms moved a bit. Looking into that mass of dark, very dirty and greasy hair wasn't all that romantic or truly comfortable, maybe even disgusting, but the one who this mess belonged to was a little more amiable.

At first Maxwell had been quite hesitant in taking off his gloves, the protection quite important to him, but it only took a few nights of this to change his mind. Even with this bad hair he had noticed quickly enough that Wilson liked having his head touched and, after the discovery, felt obligated to try and fulfill that role he had been ignoring. Dirtiness aside, it was almost soothing to do what he was doing, slowly and carefully dragging his fingers through the thick mat of hair, untangling snares and other knots as he went, fingertips light on Wilsons scalp. 

The man before him shivered, whether by cold or Maxwell's administrations he did not know, and feeling him push himself closer, into his shirted chest, made Maxwell feel…feel…

He didn’t know, couldn’t identify it fully. Warm. Safe. At ease, relaxed. Very, very relaxed, perhaps, the usual stretched out, taunt string that resided in his chest laid down for once, and Maxwell sighed heavily through his nose, chest rising against Wilson. If he wished, the words to truly describe it where there, he was a smart fellow after all, but even just letting himself brush the thoughts by made him…embarrassed. It was almost too detailed, as if visceral, way too intimate or invading, and letting his own wall down for that was something he wasn’t willing to do just yet.

Wilson was important to him, Maxwell may as well admit that, but explaining why to himself was just a little much right now. Doing that would be…well, best answer that he could think of was that it would made him too damn vulnerable. Obviously vulnerable to someone he'd be very comfortable with, and yet that nagging tick still prevented him from accepting everything just yet, from opening up just yet.

There was a muffled mumble next to him, a low musical note against his chest, and Maxwell almost replied with his own question before stopping himself as a hand wrapped around his offhand, the one laid down between them. The warmth from those fingers against his, curled loosely and yet holding on with an unseen strength, was something that sent a thrill in his chest, some feeling or other he could not identify that made his heart beat a little harder, a little faster.

Really it felt awkward, something he'd never thought about before. Obviously when he was growing up such topics did arise, was mostly the prevailing force in society as a whole, but Maxwell had never thought of ‘love’ in anyway connected to himself. It did enter his mind every once in awhile, of course, but his own thoughts of his career and future distracted him from pursuing any such paths and truly he didn't think he could have courted any of those who had struck his fancy anyway. Maxwell was just not the type to do so, and obviously no one else pursued him in such a way, so experience in this was zero to none.

It made him nervous, not knowing exactly what or how to react. Not having any human contact in general for a very, very long time made this harder, not to mention how difficult it was to communicate at all anymore. It may have been interesting in the very beginning, with a thought that the future of such language could turn out quite well, but then again, how long had Maxwell sat upon that Throne without hearing a damn thing? 

It hadn't taken long for all that noise to become too much, and the both of them had shared that opinion enough times by way of a cacophony of chaotic musical distress. Even after the machine fiasco, with the quite sudden arrival of every other survivor dragged into this place, even with the rather unwelcome increase in musical variety, Maxwell had very little patience for the sound. Yes, the others sounded much more organized than himself, yes, sometimes they sounded quite nice and relaxing, yes, they could even create whole choruses and musical numbers that sounded good for once, but he could only go for so long with all that racket. At least Wilson hadn't liked talking to a degree, at least he had been usually politely quiet around Maxwell; these others seemed to just love the sound of their own voices.

It had probably been a good thing that he had been “exiled” from their noisy little camp. Good riddance really; he'd have had a fit if he had stayed there any longer, all that annoying noise and little to no silence and the stupid musical numbers. Wasting their time, playing around like that.

Honestly Maxwell expected to die very quickly once he was out on his own and was pleasantly surprised to find he actually could live on his own. The hounds preferred the large group to him and so did the giants; a win win, since the creatures had their fun and he got to make off with whatever was left. Of course, he only did this when everyone died; showing his face to steal their stuff or being caught red handed would be a death sentence for sure. Maxwell had no misgivings in the fact that the lot of them would kill him if they felt they were in the right.

His thought process derailed for a moment, brought back around as Wilson made another humming noise, the trumpet like sound very muted as he strung out a couple of notes. Whatever he had to say was incomprehensible, but Maxwell found he had nothing against the sudden intrusive noise; quiet like this, without that dreadful pitch that usually stayed in the mans voice, made it bearable. The hand in his squeezed for a moment, tugged gently to Wilsons chest as he scooted closer to Maxwell, and all he could do was breathe, the heat rising in his face. This…affection, as it was, was not unappreciated, but it felt unknown, something he didn’t know how to handle.

After the arrival of the others and his very quick banishment, Maxwell had not expected to be in Wilson's presence ever again. Their time as campmates had been incredibly taxing and not a good experience at all, the both of them so socially excluded that interaction, even if they had been able to communicate, would have been just as strained and hostile. He had thought he'd be alone permanently after that.

Obviously this was not the case, though he had not liked the circumstances that led up to it. The hounds had almost done him in, having been driven away from the very loud music making camp to his own, and whether that had been intentional or not had not been on his mind when he had to deal with them. Afterwards, a little out of it and very strained, the shadow doubles already splatters of void on grass and the hounds all taken care of, Maxwell had gotten a little peeved about the situation. They had obviously come from the other camp, had even showed signs of injury, but of course the others couldn't have finished the bloody things off, of course they'd just. Run them off towards him. Some passive aggressive way to get rid of him without making them all out to be murderers, no doubt.

Well, he remembered thinking, you’ve succeeded now haven't you? I'm going to die out here because of you lot, thanks! Good riddance.

Was finally getting what he had deserved, he had supposed, and that made a lot of sense at the time. Karma and all that, finally finishing him off.

He'd come back, of course, but elsewhere, farther out, and without the others to deal with the harder, bigger challenges. Maxwell would be more dead than alive half the time, he was sure. Probably what he'd deserve, of course, for all that's he done in this world with the past power of Them and the Throne, and a part of him had welcomed the idea as he laid dying under that tree near his disheveled camp, bleeding out and not liking the fact parts of him were in the open air when they shouldn't be. Better than the Throne by a long shot; at least he'd be feeling the grass and breathing the fresh(er) air every time he revived. At least he'd be feeling something every time, not numb and heavy on some seat of shadow, and at least he'd be feeling pain for once.

Another thing the Throne hadn't granted him down there, even though he had summoned every possible way into that dark room. He couldn't bleed, no matter what, and at least up here he had the option.

Whatever the hounds had been able to do was too much for him to handle, and succumbing to the wounds was going to be a slow, hurting thing, and his own self disgust and hatred just stretched it out, made it last. Painful indeed, and really Maxwell hadn't stopped his own indulgence in enjoying it to some degree, had fought the whole way, with every breathe. He was going to die, gladly would die, but God was he going to make it take awhile.

This line of thinking was the thing to lead him…here, weirdly enough. 

He had been incredibly out of it when Wilson had appeared, bringing along a few of his “friends”, worried for some reason or other and obviously they followed him along to make sure he didn't get hurt or killed. Whether by wolves or by the big, bad, very injured former King, Maxwell didn't know, and of course they had argued over him, of course. Maybe he had been a little delirious by that point, but he had whole heartedly agreed with them on letting him die like that, had been very stubborn when Wilson had tried to figure out where he was injured, had said a great many of nasty things, mostly about himself but the snides he made about the lot of them were rather obnoxious.

None of them knew what he was saying and he didn't know what they were saying either, but all that noise had made everything amplified and that much worse and really Maxwell was pretty much ready to give up the ghost by that point. Self inflection was fine, but when he was suddenly swamped by a whole musical number that was way too loud Maxwell found he'd rather not.

And, of course, Wilson had to have a life amulet on hand.

The rest of the group had not been happy about it, but no one stopped him and though Maxwell would have it was past the point of where he could decide his own fate. 

He hadn't been quite dead yet, so its damn effect didn’t happen and he didn't have the opportunity of making a run for it with them all stunned, so instead Wilson had somehow convinced everybody to help him drag Maxwell, none too gently, back to their camp. This convincing was more of very loud trumpet screeching, but it worked out even with Maxwell's lower, more gurgly notes of protest and his, uh, pathetic attempts at making this harder for everyone. Didn't earn any points with anyone once he was more level headed, but lowering himself to make them feel better for “saving” him was not a thing he did. He told them, often enough, that they should have left him be. They didn't understand, of course, probably thought he was saying something nasty with how they reacted, but it turned out he couldn't act the same towards the person who had wanted to save him in the first place.

They still couldn't communicate, but whatever time Wilson had spent in this camp full of hyperactive childish adults (and adultish children) seemed to have made him more firm and confident. Not what Maxwell liked to deal with, thank you very much, and now he had someone keeping an eye on him all the time, even when Wilson was out of the damnable camp. They wouldn't let him leave, no matter how much he yelled and complained about it, no matter how much noise he made or the rather childish way he acted.

He was Maxwell the Great! He had been the King of this board, had dictated exactly what happened to all of them! God damn it he could do what he liked and whatever he wanted and no one could stop him now!

Except they did and he wasn't even allowed to be on the outskirts of the camp, had to stay in the crowded middle to be watched and pitied or whatever. Made him very bitter, almost no privacy for anything at all, followed around and treated like a vulnerable child.

Having to continue to wear the life amulet was a hassle, and taking that off when he could was his only way to feel in control. It hurt, obviously, and maybe it was cutting his nose off to spite his face, made it harder for him to heal and thus eventually leave these fools, but it was the only thing to make him feel under control, the only thing he could dictate. And of course getting caught with it off made it harder, especially since the one to catch him was the oh so might, head full of air trumpet screamer Wilson, and Maxwell found that all that time here didn't change the fact that both of them still had screaming matches like back then.

Except this time, Wilson wasn't the one to back off first.

It took way too long, healing from that, and of course Wilson had paid close attention to what it was healing and of course Maxwell had a few more arguments with him over the scars on his arms, lost all of them by forfeit, by stalking off and then turned back around because he wasn’t allowed to leave, lost all availability to every sharp object he felt he needed. It was worse than anything, this arrest and prison of sorts, and obviously Maxwell made sure everyone suffered for it, made sure this was just as much hell for them as it was for him.

If he had to deal with it again, he'd be leaving permanently. Dying alone, over and over, would be much better than what he had to go through then.

And when that amulet had done its job, had finally cracked and become worthless, when Wilson finally seemed to be beaten down by everyone else and how much they hated Maxwell, he had left.

His camp was just as destroyed as before, and he had gathered all he could and moved a little further out, tried to make his tracks harder to follow.

Living from then was…harder, unfortunately. The giants were not the problems, but hounds found him out here, found it was easier to attack one person that a whole group. Making his own life amulets was irritating, but another repeat of back then was not what he wanted. 

And he had grinded his teeth and made his own irritated, screechy musical notes and had survived, had done what he wanted.

It had felt a little less satisfying then it had before however, and the damn life amulets were used more often than he would have usually done so, him being a true grave robber in the end, but…

Thank God Wilson fell asleep, because Maxwell was not very happy at the moment. These times were nice, but they sure did let him think and remember a little too much.

Wilson didn’t smell nice, but at that moment Maxwell didn't care and burying his face into the smaller mans grimy hair made him close his eyes and try not to think. Having his hand be held like it was, being held like this made him feel vulnerable in a way he didn't especially like, but having someone here for once was better than by himself. It was probably healthier too, but letting Wilson know that upfront was not a good idea.

The man already knew anyway, was awfully careful sometimes, and it was probably the reason why he tracked Maxwell down and started visiting, started trying not to cause fights between them, started looking through his stuff more often when he thought Maxwell wasn't watching. Of course Maxwell was more cautious than Wilson seemed to think and anything suspicious was hidden away, the razors and flint and such sharp objects, because the last thing he wanted was to be forced back to that dreadful camp again. These visits were quiet, thank God, just some company it seemed, though Maxwell did not reject the food or supplies that he was given every once in awhile, and yet he dwelled on the fact he was visited at all, especially by someone he's shared past history with.

Maxwell knew quickly enough that it was pity, the man pitying him and his past and his attitude and how he was in general, but there was nothing he could do about that or about how he had started to look forward to the visits.

How the dynamics changed, how the shift flipped to something a little more than what they had before, seemed to be a rather sudden thing to him. It…started small, instigated by Wilson he was sure because he could not remember any instances of courting until it hit him suddenly one winter night, the very obvious affection suddenly very clear and the odd embarrassment and realization of it was slow and dawning. It was most unpleasant and bizarre realizing he has actually been returning the gestures the whole time, having gotten to a relaxed point around Wilson's person that it was almost automatic. 

And then it only took him a short time to recognize this for what it was.

As much as he knew what he felt for Wilson, this was based on pity and the like. Whatever Maxwell felt wasn't important enough for him to explore and he really shouldn't. This wasn’t something deeper but fighting it would end badly and really, truly, was it all that bad?

Not being truthful to himself perhaps, but when was he ever truthful about anything? And trying to communicate that was beyond his abilities anyway; let Wilson pity him all he liked, let him try and “help” him; either way, Maxwell was going to take it like the pitiful thing he was and continue doing what he wanted to do. Caring about Wilson would not get him anywhere, but stopping it would cause more trouble, wouldn't it?

His huffed sigh was a leaning a little more heavily into a different territory, a low, wretched note escaping him by accident, so Maxwell breathed in deeper for a moment, tried not to think about what exactly Wilson had in his hair or why it smelled the way it did, and let the air sit in his lungs before letting it out, now under control. He was trembling, felt stiff and heavy, but that could be explained off as the cold or his age or whatever. With how tight his grip was on Wilsons hand, with how tangled their legs were and how close they were, the cold was a good excuse.

Under these worn blankets of his, under this tent of his, in the fall season so close to winter, it was warmer than he could get all by himself.

A note from beside him startled Maxwell from his light doze, made him pull back from the man's hair and head, and Wilson was looking at him sleepily, a slow string of song mumbled at him. Maxwell just hummed after a moment, not understanding and only making noise to stop the expectant silence, looking away and down to their entwined hands.

The hand on his face made him stutter, shocked him for a moment, and he only glanced quickly back at Wilson's face, that expression he couldn't quite understand looking at him, before closing his eyes and instead favoring the black behind his eyelids. Wilson mumbled a little more, quiet and slow, fingers warm and light on his cheek, and Maxwell could feel that little shudder of emotion again, something in his chest heavy and sad.

Only pity. Only pity, and the way his head felt heavy and the lump in his throat made him…made him feel…

Wilson pressed up against him, pulled his hand away and nuzzled his head under Maxwell's chin, against his chest and throat, that dirty hair again, and all he could do was choke out a low sob of sound, heart pounding in his chest, eyes shut tight. The hand on his tightened, fingers entwined warmly around his own, that warm pulse, and the low trumpet notes from Wilson were soft and easy, quiet music in his ears.

Whether he heard something in them or not, notes of concern and worry and softness and care, Maxwell didn't know, didn't want to know. Right now, hand in hand, thin body pressed up against his own, tangled with his own lanky limbs, warm in this intimate company, he didn't want to think on if it was just pity or something else.

He didn't want to ever know.


End file.
